


Thursday Night: Vin

by farad



Category: Magnificent Seven
Genre: AU: Brothel In The Hills, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-07
Updated: 2013-02-07
Packaged: 2017-11-28 13:36:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,453
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/674983
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/farad/pseuds/farad
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Part of "Judge Travis' Brothel on the Hill" series.  Cycnus gave us the foundation for this awesome AU (http://mag7daybook.dreamwidth.org/304675.html) and the first story -  "Friday Night: Chris" (http://mag7daybook.dreamwidth.org/304562.html).  This is Vin's night.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Thursday Night: Vin

**Author's Note:**

> Escorts meets the OW, thanks to Judge Travis and the awesome Cyc (Cycnus39).

Vin arrived early, as he usually did. Mary smiled at him as he came in the house, and it seemed sincere. She was sitting at the desk in the small parlor off the main room, the place she called her office and which was locked up most of the time. She was always there when he came in, and she always looked relieved to see him, as if she thought he wouldn't come.

'No,' she said, the one time he'd asked, 'it's because you're the only one who shows up early. It makes things a lot easier and less worrisome.'

He touched the brim of his hat as he passed the door and went up the stairs to the bedroom. The room was as it always was, bed made, pitcher of water on the dresser with a large bowl and a clean stack of flannels beside it. The lamp was burning but turned low at the moment, sun still filtering through openings in the dark curtains. The sheets on the bed would be clean; Mary made sure that they were changed every morning.

But he wouldn't need them, not unless he decided, as he sometimes did, to sleep here tonight. He dropped his saddle bags on the dresser and took off his hat as he walked to large wardrobe that stood against the far wall. It wasn't empty, but there was still room for him to store his hat, gun, clothes and boots, and even more room when he pulled out the things he would need.

The buffalo skin was wide and thick, big enough that he could double it and still have have enough room for the things he was getting paid to do. It made a nice, firm bed, nicer than what he'd have if he'd been living in a teepee with the People, which was good. Most of the men here didn't really want what they were asking for, they just wanted the idea of it.

Which was good enough for him. When Mary had first told him what was being asked after, what they wanted him to do, he'd been angry. He wouldn't submit that way for anyone, he wouldn't allow these ignorant sons of bitches to insult something they didn't understand, and certainly wouldn't let them pretend any sort of superiority over it. 

'I don't think it's quite like that,' Mary said slowly, quietly. She wasn't looking at him, her gaze directed out the window but unfocused. 'They're not – I don't think it's about disrespect, or at least, not disrespect for the Indians. It might be . . . well, it might be disrespect for themselves. You don't have to do anything you don't want to, Vin. And if one of them wants you to do something you don't want to, you can refuse them. But I think. . . I think you'll find that they might actually respect you, and more to the point, what you represent."

He looked at her, the idea making no sense. She had turned then, looking back at him, her face open and honest. 'You don't have to do anything you don't want to do, and you can refuse anyone you want.'

The idea hadn't made sense but he had trusted her enough to give it a try. After that first night, he had begun to understand.

So now, he went through the ritual of putting on the breech clout, tying it around his waist, draping the covering cloth as it should be. He smiled to himself, as he always did when he watched the cloth drop. It was far longer than it needed to be, far longer than was practical, but this wasn't about practicality. 

His moccasin boots were worn, too worn to be usable on the trail, but for here, in this room with its polished wooden planking and the buckskin on the floor, it was more than enough to protect his feet and even keep them warm. The laces were supple and tied around his calves, just below his knees. 

Then he reached for his saddlebags. For a time, he had thought to keep his paints here, in the wardrobe, but he worried that he might need them at some point. He'd kept them with him, close to hand, since he'd left the People, and it seemed unwise to do anything else, though outside of this room, he'd rarely ever had call for them. 

There was a mirror in the room, but he didn't use it. He had learned, as every good warrior does, which colors should be where and what they meant. The first night he'd done this, he'd painted himself as a true warrior would, covering most of his face with the thick colors. But that had been too much for some of his customers, so he had cut back, just enough to give the idea. Now he striped his face with the red and yellow and blue, over his cheeks, cheekbones, and forehead. 

He'd bathed earlier in the day, though not so early that he hadn't had the time to gather back to him the smell of horses and leather and sunshine, scents that were natural to the People. He'd washed his hair and it was dry now, so that he could braid one strand, knotting it at the bottom. He had an eagle feather, one he had earned long ago. It was too fragile to wear here, where it might get crushed against the buffalo hide, so he twined into the end of the braid a long owl's feather that he'd found, and that he could replace. The idea, not the reality.

Lastly, he picked up his hunting knife in its worn sheath. Using a wide strip of leather, he tied it to his right thigh. If he'd been with the People, there would have been no sheath, but then, if he'd been with the People, he'd have taken it off before he ever got up to what he was getting up to here. It was for effect, but it was also for protection. He didn't have to do anything he didn't want to do, but sometimes, some of the men forgot that part and he had to remind them.

And for a few of them, a well-placed blade to the throat accomplished what he was getting paid for without him having to do much more.

He was adjusting the knife, making sure he could draw it, when there was a familiar tapping at the door. "Vin? Cyrus is here, a little early, he says he's got a late meeting and wants to know if you'll see him first?"

Cyrus. He was a good customer, someone who had never disrespected Vin. But he was one that would make Vin earn his money. Vin usually preferred to see him last, as more often than not, their trysts ended up leaving Vin a little sore, his thighs and knees tired from riding the man hard. They also left him a lot satisfied, which was not necessarily a good way to start the night.

"Vin?" Her hand fell on the doorknob, turning it slightly. 

"Yeah," he called, stepping back into a shadow. He didn't like for Mary to see him like this, bare and war-like. She was a lady, after all. "Yeah, send him up."

"All right," she said, and he thought he heard a hint of disappointment in her voice. 

"And Mary?" he called. "Tell him it might cost him a little more tonight. We might have to turn things around a little."

"I will," she said and he heard her turn away, her steps silenced by the rug.

He went back to his saddlebag and got out the tin of grease he kept. He usually didn't reach for it until later in the night, but if he had Cyrus first, he'd have to be on the receiving end. Not what they usually did, but Cyrus would be all right with it, this once. He'd been dropping hints long enough.

And he'd tip well enough, especially if he thought he was the only one who'd gotten any pleasure from it.

Vin put the saddlebag in the wardrobe and closed it, then he moved the lamp to the edge of the dresser where it would be just bright enough and cast just the right shadows. He moved to the window, adjusting the curtain to block out the last rays of the evening sun. It was going to be a long night, but that was all right. It would be a good one, in more than a few ways. He grinned as he heard the carpet- muffled steps of Cyrus coming up the stairs and the clinking of the gold coins in his pockets.


End file.
